Hanashi
by B2
Summary: Touya tells Sakura a bedtime story. [Spoilers for Vol. 1, Part V of manga]


Hanashi  
  
They have a ritual, every night. On the dot, at seven o'clock, she waits for him at the study door. He doesn't need to listen for the patter of her feet across the floor to sense her approach; he knows that she is already there. He lets her stand for a minute or two, as he lazily flips through his books, shuffles through papers, picks up and then drops pencils and pens until he hears her impatient call through the door, "Oniichan!"  
  
He then emerges from the room, looking harassed, and glares at her, as he demands, "What?"  
  
She lifts up her small arms with a pleading look and says simply, "A story."  
  
He peers down at her from his lofty height, tilting his head to one side, as if seriously considering her request. Sometimes he hesitates, "I don't know, kaijuu, I'm really busy . . .." Sometimes he answers, "I can't tonight." And sometimes he doesn't say anything at all. But in the end, it is always the same. At her downcast expression, he relents and grudgingly sighs, "All right. Let's go."  
  
And she smiles brightly, holding out her hand, and he takes it into his own to lead her down the hallway.  
  
***  
  
"Look," he tells her, pointing out into the darkness. "There in the street."  
  
She stops abruptly.  
  
"Do you see it?"  
  
She shakes her head, more as a refusal than an answer.  
  
"There! Look!" he exclaims again, tugging at her hand, urging her to look.  
  
She shakes her head once more, this time shutting her eyes.  
  
"There! There!" he cries. In his excitement, he pulls her after him down the deserted street.  
  
She resists, trying to drag him away in the opposite direction. But he is too strong and so she follows him, unwillingly.  
  
"Do you see it?" he repeats. "There, by the lamppost."  
  
And despite her fear, she slowly raises her head and looks in the direction he points out. She doesn't see it, but she senses it, an eerie chill along her spine.  
  
"A ghost . . ." she whispers.  
  
"Yes." He moves closer to the lamppost, fascinated.  
  
She shivers and tries again to draw him away. "Oniichan, I'm scared. I don't want to go there."  
  
"Don't worry," he replies absently, "I'll protect you."  
  
"But, Oniichan . . ." She huddles closer to him, squeezing his hand more tightly. "What if it's too strong?"  
  
"It's not going to hurt us," he answers confidently, still walking toward the light.  
  
"Oniichan," she protests again.  
  
"Don't worry," he repeats, pressing her hand reassuringly. "I'll take care of you."  
  
"Oniichan --"  
  
He halts and looks down at her, a serious expression on his face. "Sakura, I know you're scared, but we have to go to it. It wants to talk to us."  
  
"It wants to talk to us?" she echoes weakly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Despite her fear, she asks, curiously, "What does it want to say?"  
  
"I don't know. That's what we're going to find out." He walks up to it, still holding her hand. He stops beneath the lamppost. He faces it, frank and unafraid. But she hides behind him, peering through the gap between his arm and torso.  
  
"You want to say something to me?" he asks.  
  
It nods timidly.  
  
"What do you want to say?"  
  
And she waits. She hears nothing but the low tone of his voice and the faint breeze that, now and again, curls around her. She sees nothing but him nodding, now and again. But he sees it and speaks to it with a subtle dignity like an ambassador conversing with a head of state, and with an expression something like eagerness, which lights his usually somber face and makes it, somehow, lovely.  
  
At last the strange chill subsides. It is gone. He stares intently at the spot by the lamppost for a few moments before he turns to her.  
  
"Oniichan," she murmurs, peering up, "can we go home, now?"  
  
He nods and takes her hand to lead her home. As they walk, she continues to press close against him, gripping his hand tightly with all the strength of her chubby hands. He is lost in thought, but he frequently looks down at her and smiles to comfort her.  
  
When they reach the house, he steers her up the stairs, unlocks the door and leads her in. He glances at the small clock on the commode. It is seven o'clock. It is her bedtime. He sets her down before her picture books and runs to draw her bath and lay out fresh pajamas. He helps her get ready for bed and then carries her to her room for her head is already nodding with sleep. He tucks her into bed and turns off the light. But before he closes the door, he hears her piping out, "Don't leave! Don't leave!"  
  
He flicks on the switch, frowning in puzzlement. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I'm scared." She's quivering, huddled beneath the covers.  
  
"Of what?" he inquires, approaching her bed.  
  
"Ghosts," she says from beneath the bedclothes.  
  
"But I don't see any ghosts," he says, checking behind the drapes, underneath her bed, behind the closet door.  
  
"I see them when you turn off the light."  
  
He stops, considering. He knows it is his fault that she is scared. He led her to the ghost, made her wait with him as he spoke to it. But what, he wonders, should I do to comfort her? What would chase away these pictures from her mind?  
  
Then he remembers. He remembers her soothing touch, the faint smell of her perfume as she bent over him, wiping his damp forehead with a cool cloth. Don't worry about those scary pictures you saw, love, she says gently. I will give you pictures to chase those nightmares away. And he hears her voice, low and lovely, as she tells him a story. Of a brave boy, his dragon, his dog, and the awful beast they vanquished together.  
  
"I know something that will chase those bad pictures away," he tells her, sitting down on the edge of her bed.  
  
And so he begins his tale to ease her fright.  
  
***  
  
When they reach her room, he lifts her into her bed and tucks the blankets closely around her. She snuggles down into the covers until only her green eyes, round with excitement, peek out over the edge. He can't help but grin a little at her eager expression (she is so cute) but he quickly hides it, feigning a yawn.  
  
"Are you sleepy, Oniichan?" she queries a little worriedly.  
  
"No," he answers shortly. But her concern secretly pleases him.  
  
"I'm glad," she says, smiling, relieved.  
  
He coughs, looking away for a moment to hide his pleasure. "So," he says, settling himself comfortably on the edge of her bed. "What story do you want me to tell you tonight?"  
  
"My favorite one," she promptly answers.  
  
"Okay." So he takes a moment to collect his thoughts before he begins.  
  
***  
  
It's nighttime. The house is silent. Otousan, weary with grief, sleeps in his study. But he lies in his bed awake, his eyes burning, staring up at the dark ceiling. His black suit drapes his desk chair; the crape armband dangles from the doorknob.  
  
The silence weighs upon him, heavy, black and cold. It presses on his chest, his heart, until he feels he is suffocating. He breathes deeply, struggling to draw in air. But the weight on his chest sinks further down until he wants to scream, to scream and to cry until the heaviness of his misery falls away or sinks into his heart so deeply he becomes used to its weight. But he clenches his teeth and glares fiercely at the darkness above him.  
  
Suddenly, an uneasy feeling prickles his skin. A vague apprehension flits across him, a quick, fluttering beat against the solid weight of his grief. He bolts upright, alert. Then he hears her. She is crying. He rolls out of bed and hurries to her, his bare feet pounding on the cold floor, his robe fluttering behind him.  
  
"Okaasan," she cries. "Okaasan!"  
  
He throws open the door and hurtles himself across the room to her side. "What is it?" he demands gently. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Okaasan," she cries. "Okaasan!"  
  
"Okaasan?" he repeats dumbly. A lump immediately forms in his throat at the sound of that name. But he pushes it down and takes a deep breath as he seats himself beside her.  
  
"Okaasan," she cries again. "I want Okaasan! Where is Okaasan?"  
  
He reaches out to take her in his arms. He whispers, "Hush, hush, it's all right," but she continues to cry. He stops, biting his lip. What can I say? he wonders. What should I tell her? He racks his brain, thinking of a dozen explanations, a dozen excuses, but he knows that none of them will do. And as he sifts through these thoughts, she continues to call out her name.  
  
At last, he knows what to do. "Sakura, I know where Okaasan is." But she doesn't hear him; only continues to weep. Through the sad web of tears and saliva that chokes her he hears the name, "Okaasan" again and again. He rocks her gently back and forth, saying over and over, "Sakura, I know where Okaasan is. I know where Okaasan is."  
  
Gradually, she stops crying. She sniffs, burrowing her head into the crook of his arm. He takes his handkerchief and wipes her damp cheeks.  
  
She stares up at him, eyes wide with hope. "Okaasan?" she echoes.  
  
"Yes," he replies. "I know where Okaasan is."  
  
"Where is she?" she asks, lifting up the wet tags of her eyelashes and looking around the room eagerly.  
  
Another lump rises in his throat, but he swallows hard before answering. "She's in heaven."  
  
"Heaven?"  
  
"Yes. And I'll tell you a story of the place where Okaasan went to."  
  
And so he begins.  
  
***  
  
As he goes on, he notices her eyes slowly droop, then blink, widen, and then droop again. He smiles a little at her vain struggle.  
  
"She has great white wings, beautiful wings, and a crown of stars in her hair."  
  
"Okaasan looks very pretty," she adds thickly, her eyes half-closed.  
  
"Yes," he agrees, "beautiful. And she sits on a cloud and looks down at the world. And she sees our house."  
  
"And she can see our garden where the peach tree, and the cherry tree, and the pinks grow," she quips. She abruptly bobs up a little, a little more awake now; they are nearing her favorite part of the story.  
  
"Yes. And everyday, she watches over us. She sends us help down from heaven whenever we are feeling sad or lonely."  
  
"What does she do?" She already knows, but loves to ask anyway. Her bright eager tone is blurring, fading.  
  
"She sends us messages to encourage us. She says that she will always protect us."  
  
"And she says she loves us very much."  
  
He nods. "And sometimes, she'll come down to us to make sure that we're all right. You can't see her, but you can feel her."  
  
"She's by our side," she whispers. He notes that she is blinking drowsily, her strawberry-gold head already on the pillow. He gently folds her chubby arms, pulls up the covers to her chin.  
  
"Yes, she's always by our side," he affirms. "If you feel a breath of wind on your cheek or a breeze in your hair, it's her, giving you a kiss or ruffling your hair. And always, she tells us, whispering in our ear --"  
  
"Everything will always be absolutely all right," she murmurs sleepily. Her eyes are shut.  
  
"Always," he promises gently. He watches her breathing gradually even out and deepen. He tucks the blankets more securely around her and dims the lamp. He leans down and, making sure she is asleep (he will never do this otherwise), brushes her hair away from her cheek, and presses his lips against her forehead, whispering, "Sleep well." Then he tiptoes out of the room and shuts the door softly.  
  
He lingers before the door, his hand still on the knob. For a moment, his dark eyes are sad and his shoulders droop. He soon squares his shoulders, though, and smiles, a determined gleam kindling his eyes. He remembers her words.  
  
"Yes," he repeats to himself, emphatically. "Everything will always be absolutely all right."  
  
He turns away. Before him, Okaasan stands, her hands lovingly outstretched to receive him.  
  
"Isn't that so, Okaasan?" he asks softly.  
  
And she nods, smiling. 


End file.
